


Mileage

by Sulwen



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Glam Rock RPF
Genre: Fucking Machines, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-08
Updated: 2011-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:59:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sulwen/pseuds/Sulwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Adam needs more than anyone can give him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mileage

**Author's Note:**

> For a kink bingo square: fucking machines.

Adam leans back and breathes the club in deep, scent of sweat and leather and alcohol, music that's hardly more than an eternal pulsing bass crawling up the wall and into his head. It's been too long since he last disappeared like this, made his way deep enough into the club scene that he was able to reclaim any part of his lost anonymity. The people here understand privacy, understand what it means to live a life compartmentalized by necessity, and it's all right if sometimes he sees recognition in their eyes. There is an unspoken agreement in the thick, heavy air, a sense of secrecy that's less about shame and more about protecting each other from those who would not understand.

All of that is still in his head, somewhere, but it's hazy with heat and drink and trip-wired lust, everything fading as the fire in his blood burns higher, reminds him of the desperate need that's brought him here, to the dark. He's stroking his cock through his pants, and slowly it occurs to him that he's been doing it for a while, leaning heavy on the wall for support, eyes narrowed to slits and head thrown back, vaguely watching the crowd as he seeks some sort of temporary relief.

It's the sort of place where he could take his cock out right here and come on the floor. But it's not that sort of need, not exactly, and his hands slap hard against the wall behind him, his whole body squirming as he presses himself into the unyielding surface, a mess of sensitized nerve endings and deep-seated _want._

He doesn't want to bottom. Doesn't want to be the focus of all that attention, doesn't want to submit to anyone else's needs or desires or goddamn _limitations._ What he wants – what he _needs_ – is to get fucked. Just that, just to get on his knees, spread open and penetrated and _fucked._ Adam bites his lip, his whole body going tense, muscles clenching around the emptiness inside him, and searches the room frantically, hoping desperately that someone will catch his eye, someone who's not just playing at toppy, who has the strength and stamina and sheer magnetism to overwhelm him, keep him on his knees and fuck the emptiness away.

He's so distracted that the gentle touch against his hand comes as a complete surprise, making him jump – surprise that turns to annoyance when he sees the pretty little twink who's standing there, all big pleading eyes and delicate lines. The boy's exactly his type, and exactly the opposite of what he needs tonight. But there are long fingers ghosting over his lips, silencing him before he can snap out a barely-polite refusal, and when he meets the boy's eyes again, there's understanding, a knowing sympathy reflected back at him.

Adam's face crumples, and a whimper forces its way past his lips, hot rush of air over the boy's fingers, and he can't even find words to ask for what he needs.

“Shh, it's ok. I know.” The boy's fingers fall away, and he takes Adam by the hand, pulls him with quiet insistence away from the wall and deeper into the viscous embrace of the dark.

The room is small, and when the door locks behind them, the noise of the club fades to a dull roar, white noise. There is no furniture in the room, no couches like maybe he expected, no mirrors on the walls. There is only one object in this space, but it's enough to make Adam's breath catch in his throat, make his body go still for the first time in what feels like hours, _days._

“Ever used one before?” The twink's voice floats into Adam's consciousness slowly, and he has no sense of how much time passes before he answers.

“No. I...no.”

It's a fucking machine. _Obviously._ Could never be mistaken for anything else. It's nothing but a plastic cock on a pole, a motor, and a place to kneel, almost intimidating in its blatant simplicity. Adam licks his lips and reminds himself to breathe, and the twink beside him laughs.

“Come on, then. Clothes off.”

Adam strips gracelessly and watches, fascinated, as the boy takes a condom from a box on the floor and stretches it expertly over the dildo. There's lube on the floor, too, an industrial-sized bottle, and it gleams in the dim light as the boy slicks it over the machine, facsimile of jacking it off. He pauses with one hand wrapped around the thing and looks back over his shoulder at Adam, a wicked smile in his eyes.

“I thought you were desperate?” he asks, teasing, and Adam's scrambling, on his hands and knees before he can think, arching his back and opening himself up to the cool air, whining deep in his throat on every exhale. His mouth is babbling now, words that hardly seem his, begging like he never does.

“Come on, fuck, _come on,_ just turn it on already, get it in me, need, oh god, fucking _need it,_ turn it on, turn it _on...”_

“You sure you don't want me to...?” Fingertips brush tentatively over his hole, sending a shudder through his body, but Adam shakes his head vehemently. He's been fucking himself all week, fingers and vibrators and dildos and plugs, every toy he's got and a couple new ones. He's more than ready.

The fingers slide away, and hands grip his hips instead, pulling to adjust his stance, and Adam shivers again as he realizes he's being lined up for it, _positioned._ Finally, the hands disappear, and the boy tells him sternly to _hold still._ Adam digs his fingers into the thin padded bench he's kneeling on and fights against the urge to thrust back, fuck himself back onto the cock he knows is ready and waiting. The moment seems to stretch and bend, taking _forever,_ the anticipation building constantly, every second expecting to finally hear the motor roar to life, feel the touch of hard plastic splitting him open, and he can't wait anymore, can't do this, is so close to turning around and screaming at the cruel stranger who's brought him so close and kept him here, hovering in torture on the knife-edge...

And then there's the hardly-audible flick of a switch, and all Adam's anger bleeds out of him in one long, loud wail, half pain and half pleasure and all, all sweet _relief._

It's nothing like getting fucked by a human. There's no slow breach, no time to adjust to the fullness and friction, no build – it's so much simpler than all that, nothing but in-out, in-out, in-out, perfect unwavering rhythm punching deep into him. It takes a few seconds for the vertigo to pass, for Adam to catch onto that rhythm, but once he does...ah, once he _does..._

His arms collapse under him and his head falls down onto them, black lines of melting eyeliner smearing hot over his skin, and he pushes back into each thrust, hips rolling to the beat, searching for just the right angle, almost there, almost right...

When it happens, he throws his head back and _screams,_ white lights exploding behind his eyes, and he _has_ to come, has to _right the fuck now,_ and he can't get a hand free to stroke his cock where it's swinging heavy between his legs, but it doesn't matter because the machine is driving him higher with every stroke, closer and closer to the edge, and _fuck_ hands, who needs hands, and it's too soon but he can't, _can't_ hold out any longer, holds his breath and squeezes his eyes shut tight and convulses hard around the still-fucking, ever-fucking cock, coming without a touch, shooting for what feels like forever as the machine pushes him through it, aftershocks sparking through him with every unforgiving thrust.

He's still lost in a post-orgasmic haze when the sound of a switch flicking cuts through the air again, and for a moment he thinks that's it, that the machine will stop now and he'll stand up on shaking legs and thank the boy who brought him here and maybe be satiated for a few days, anyway. But the machine _doesn't_ stop, not even for a moment – instead, the motor kicks up to a higher pitch and suddenly he's being fucked _faster,_ no warning and no time to prepare, and it's too much too soon, but he has no choice but to let it happen, let himself be pushed, _taken._

There's a span of time, then, when he's not quite enjoying himself, not deep enough, far too aware, and it's more like testing himself to see what he can take than anything else. He's not participating any more, not thrusting, just holding himself still as the machine fucks and fucks and fucks, breathing brokenly around each stroke, each beat of the increased rhythm.

It's shocking when the pleasure starts to build again, like waking from a deep sleep, the almost hypnotic fog the repetition of the machine has lulled him into, and he realizes with a start that he's _hard_ again, hard and ready, and suddenly his whole body is moving, quick stuttering motions to keep up with the punishing pace of the machine, wanting only _more_ and _harder_ and _now._

Coming again is so good it _hurts,_ blowing it all over the bench, and Adam hangs his head down and watches it happen, watches jizz drip from his cock into the growing mess beneath him, and he has the sudden urge to rub his face in it, lick every drop up off the smooth black plastic. But he can't move, can't escape the machine, the cock still fucking into him, unchanging, uncaring, pinioned in place as surely as if he were tied down.

The flick of a switch. The ever-higher hum of the motor. That ever-hard cock fucking him faster, faster than any person ever could.

He's shaking, all the strength gone out of his body, and all his muscles go lax, his head falling down to rest on the bench again, his arms hanging limply to the sides, and he lets himself be rocked with the motion of the machine. He's soaking wet, hair clinging to his face, drops of sweat dripping off him onto the floor, and the room smells like sweat and lube and spunk and something mechanical, like oil, maybe, or metal. His eyes won't focus, and he can't quite catch his breath, and maybe he passes out for a moment or two, because when he comes to the boy is kneeling next to him, whispering something he can't make out right into his ear and sliding a hand over his belly toward his cock.

Adam tries to shake his head, tries to tell him that he _can't,_ there's no way, he can't come _again,_ doesn't even _want_ to, but then that hand is gripping him and stroking him hard, just right, and the machine is fucking him right into that tight, lube-slick channel, and it's like the orgasm is _forced_ out of him, right from the deepest place inside him, like he's caught in the undertow and being pulled under, and the blackness is like drowning in a sea of sparked-out sensation and frayed nerves and painfully aching muscles, and still the constant thrust, thrust, thrust of the machine.

It takes Adam an over-long moment to notice the silence in the room, when it comes, the stillness. The boy comes to his side and helps him stand on shaking legs, just long enough to get them to a corner, get Adam sitting, slumped back into the solidness of the walls. He curls himself up around Adam, holding him, and Adam is grateful for the touch, warm and gentle and soft, something to center him as he slowly drifts back into the world of humanity.

Eventually, he blinks his eyes and shakes his head and feels himself again, and looks down to see the boy looking up at him. And Adam smiles at him, the slow, languid smile of the well satisfied, and says, simply, “Thank you.”

The boy grins, delighted, and leans up for a kiss, one Adam is happy to give. Every part of him aches, and will probably ache more tomorrow, and his voice is raspy and wrecked, and pain flares up sharp in his ass with every miniscule motion...but the squirming desperate need is gone, fucked out of him like it's never quite been before, and for the first time in a long time, Adam feels completely and utterly at peace.


End file.
